


Survive, Evade, Resist, Escape

by arienai



Category: Metal Gear
Genre: BBKaz Day 2016, But it could just be salt, Extremely Dubious Consent, Implied BBV also, Implied Vocelot, M/M, Manly fisticuffs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-22
Updated: 2016-09-22
Packaged: 2018-08-16 15:16:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8107342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arienai/pseuds/arienai
Summary: The CO and the survival instructor of FOXHOUND are old friends and they have a nice chat.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Missing the point of Peace Day by a mile, here's my fill for BBKaz Day 2016.
> 
> Prompt: Nostalgia

You'd often wondered what he'd say to you if he saw you again.

That's really why you're here, if you're being honest with yourself. Ostensibly you came to see your men off before an exercise, but you know that on this one occasion he's leaving with them. As opposed to meeting them on site, which he normally does, for reasons that are as evident to you as he is about everything that has to do with you.

When you arrive the trucks are being unloaded rather than loaded. A trio of recruits are tossing rucks out onto the ground while a swarm of the rest grabs them two at a time and runs them back inside and up the stairs. Autumn rain washes down in an icy torrent; the entryway and stairwell are full of muddy bootprints. You can hear him from all the way up on the third floor, where your exercise room is.

"Explain to me why you don't have a canteen cup, soldier."

"Sir! I... didn't think I needed one, sir!"

"I'm not as young as you are, so maybe I don't remember, but was it or was it not on the packing list?"

"Yes, sir, the canteen cup was on the packing list, sir!"

"So where is your canteen cup?"

"Sir, I didn't think--"

"Did I _ask_ you to think, soldier? Was that one of my instructions? Did I say 'my packing list is just a suggestion, bring whatever the fuck you want'?"

"But it's just--"

"The answer is NO SIR YOU DID NOT SAY THAT, SIR! Now everybody is going to bring out their canteen cup and show it to me, and everybody who doesn't have one is going to get there ON FOOT."

"Master, that's... days..."

"It's HOURS if you _run_!"

A soft chuckle escapes you with a flush of nostalgia. You haven't done a change parade since you were younger than any of these men. You know that he's going to make them all run. For failing to check their fellow soldier's kit; for milling around disorganized instead of forming a line to toss the bags to one another; for not taking their boots off and getting mud on the floor - it doesn't matter. Upstairs, he'll be dressed for a run because this was his plan the whole time.

You circle around to the back so that you can reach him unnoticed. As easily as breathing; it doesn't matter that you wear a suit and tie and not fatigues. When you don't want to be seen, you aren't. 

You watch him from the doorway as he rips apart their packs, a growing pile of kit that either wasn't on the list or isn't properly labeled or cleaned on the floor. By the time he's done, they'll have half the equipment they expected to make it through the exercise. They'll learn to do without; learn to share; learn to be disciplined and precise about what they do bring with them, next time. They'll be stronger for it.

When you're ready, you ease forward out of the shadows to let the light catch you. He's the first one to see you, just as you expected he would be. You can't see his expression behind his sunglasses, but he opens his mouth and you know that your curiosity will finally be satisfied.

"ROOM!" 

His voice cracks across the backs of every recruit present, whipping them upright to attention. 

What else would he have said? You're their commander; these are your troops. "At ease," you say, and their feet spread apart in unison. 

"Are you here to inspect them, sir?" he asks, with a tone that conveys to them that he'd relish the prospect. To you he conveys nothing. His mouth is a flat, hard line. 

"No, I'm here to speak with you." Their relief is palpable. Though if they think you intend to spare them the run they're sadly mistaken. "As you were."

"Sir," he nods sharply. "When I get back the trucks will be loaded! The floors will be spotless! And you will all be waiting in the prone position outside the door _by_ number because you'll need a warm up for our twenty mile _run_!"

There's a collective groan but they know by now that if they hesitate it'll only be worse for them in the end. You see your "son" among them; he looks less like you than you expected. Than they told you he would. He's thinner, and clean-shaven. That suits you - he'll succeed or fail on his own merits. He's just another recruit.

"Walk with me," you say, and Kaz obeys.

You wait until you're well out of earshot before continuing, sizing him up as you walk. It's been years. They've taken a toll on both of you - for you, the years have begun to march double time, for him, the trauma his has been put through still shows.

Decades ago he'd had the body of a man who'd sculpted it with aesthetics in mind. His chest, shoulders, and abs had been carefully chiseled away by training and diet; they were too large in some places and too small in others to be practical for your purposes but they served his purposes just as he meant them to. Few with that kind of taste could take their eyes off them. Yourself included. 

He would have lost it all when he lost his limbs. Spent the next several years behind a desk, withering away.

His arm is thinner now, his shoulders narrower. But his core and his legs are thicker, and riddled with scars, dents, and striations that would have to be airbrushed away before he appeared in any magazine. He has endurance that will not bear the cost of vanity, and his cheeks are hollow with it.

You knew he'd replaced his arm and leg with prosthetics at last, but seeing them is another matter. He uses them as readily as if they'd been his own flesh all along. 

Even so, his presence is familiar at your side all the same. The same man you've counted on all these years.

Who seems to have absolutely nothing to say to you.

"How's the family, Kaz?" you ask, and his jaw tightens at the familiar name. You are no longer the one who calls him that.

"Fine," he answers, clipped.

A pointless question: you already know that his wife is at her wit's end over his obsession with work. Mulling over a divorce and hesitating only on account of their child. He - that _other_ him - can recite their petty, obfuscating arguments to you by heart and does so laughing.

"And your daughter... she is yours, isn't she?" As if you don't already know the answer to that, too. It's far better that he imagines you don't.

"Yes, she's mine," he responds flatly. Or is there a slight raise of anger? "But if you're asking me if she's _biologically_ mine: yes. Your best friend Ocelot suggested we save a few things for posterity before we took our innoculations."

"He did?" That surprises you; you'd assumed it had been Kaz's own idea. 

"He said he had no interest in it himself, which I assumed means he has two hundred samples sealed away in vaults all over the world, half of which he'll have deliberately forgotten the locations of in case the bukkake Illuminati try to torture it out of him."

You're not sure if that's supposed to be sardonic, humourous, or largely accurate, but it still makes you chuckle. He's always had a mouth on him; it's what makes him a good instructor. Always has. 

"Too bad they didn't have freezers back in your day, eh Boss?" There it is. Finally. His anger. Oozing through the sutures of his facade. "I'd ask you about _your_ family, but, you know..."

"They're quite well, actually," you respond with a glance out the window at the soldiers holding themselves up with trembling arms in the mud. "A little wet, and cold, but I hear that builds character."

He snorts. "I bet," he swings out verbally, the ball flying harmlessly off into the bleachers behind his head. "They like fucking each other much better than they ever liked fucking you, trust me. I got to hear it all the time."

V and Adam could fuck half the planet, for all you care. They aren't going anywhere. They're yours. 

Kaz is the only one who's ever made you fight for it. 

"I'm sure they're enjoying themselves," you remark wryly. Unlike him, when you swing, you don't miss. "It's a good thing you did have that sample, because it looks to me like she wouldn't let you blow your load inside of her these days even if it would knock her up."

You see him grind his teeth; you know for a fact that he hasn't shared a bed with his wife in months, and hasn't fucked her for even longer.

You stop him with a hand on the small of his back, leaning close. "I could relieve some of that tension." Your lips almost brushing his ear. 

Savouring the thrill of victory in the slight catch of his breath before he growls and shakes you off.

"Go fuck yourself," he's snarling, now, and it's just like old times. He turns to face you, but one step forward makes him take one step back. Against the wall. "Oh wait - you _can_ , you twisted motherfucking piece of _shit_. And it's a good thing, too, because I bet nobody else wants to touch your sagging sack or your wrinkled dick."

"Nobody but you, Kaz," you grin as you trace the slowly hardening outline of his cock over his pants.

You saw the clenched fist coming from so far away you could have ducked it twice. It's steel and it won't bend nor cause him pain if you twist it, so you move with it and redirect its force into the wall behind you. Plaster puffs from the sizeable crack.

Now it really _is_ just like old times.

He's not done yet; oh no, far from it. He has new skills - a new _body_ \- to show you. He lashes out with his other hand; that one you can simply catch. But he's backed you up, and he thinks he has you trapped, or has at least limited your movement, so he tries to hook a foot around your ankle and drag you down. You step out of it as easily as a dancer.

This is the only dance you know.

He hurls himself at you in frustration, just like he always did. Wrenches his metal fist out of the wall and tries to pummel you with it again; you fall to a crouch and move sideways, ducking under his grasp before he lands it and coming up behind him before he can turn around. You lock your arms around his throat and that should be the end of it.

But it isn't. He can break your hold now and he _throws_ you. 

You roll lightly with the impact and kip back to your feet and punch him in the throat all in one smooth motion, laughing with delight. This is what you've both been waiting for. _This_ is what you understand. He is as he ever was the man at your side who tests you, challenges you. Eva charmed you; V submits to you; Adam plays an entirely different game. _She_ put you on your knees.

Kaz, he lunges at you, breathing strained now but not finished, oh not even _close_. He launches a flurry of punches and kicks and some of them even land. He gasps in pain when you retaliate but he doesn't quit. He's trying so hard but he doesn't _understand_. He's stronger now, much stronger, but you don't fight a man's strengths.

You fight his weaknesses. 

You come in close enough to risk a hit, which he predictably delivers, bruisingly, to your ribs. You aim for his face; it'll be a glancing blow on your part so he doesn't risk baring his stomach to block it. Just enough force to tilt his head back and knock his sunglasses off his face.

Right under the brightest fluorescent lights, where you've lured him.

It buys you a half-second of distraction while he winces, at most. Five times as long as it takes you to fire a bullet. An eternity, in other words, to tackle him and pin him to the floor. He snarls and hisses and struggles like a snared animal; a wasted effort. It's only a matter of time until he submits.

"That was nostalgic," you murmur. His cheeks are flushed with effort; his erection hasn't softened in the slightest and neither has yours. The recruits will survive another few minutes in the rain. You lean down to kiss him--

He smashes his temple into your nose as hard as he can. " _Fuck_ you," his low, guttural rage echoes down the hall. 

Fine. "That's the whole idea, Kaz." You can fight him for real, if he wants. You knee him in the kidneys so hard he can't breathe; you slam his face into the ground so hard he loses consciousness for a few seconds; long enough for you to strip off his belt. You expect submission, or at least acceptance, in his unclad eyes when they refocus, but it doesn't come.

You've never told him with words that he will never be strong enough to beat you. You've told him with your body, though. Many, many times.

You're reaching down to tell him again when you hear a metallic clatter behind you. Kaz freezes; you look behind you, cautiously. You would have noticed if someone approached. 

"...Master Miller...?" It's David, and he sounds incredulous. "You're sparring with the CO?"

"Well, you know," Kaz elbows you away with a grunt. You let him. "We are old war buddies."

You let him up and when you see him hide his arousal in the way he stands, you know you won. You hand him his belt back; he struggles visibly to regain his composure, his aura of control and command. No need - if David's family, let him see that you're one who owns him. You help him put it back on and your fingers on his hips won't let him pull away.

To Kaz's credit, you don't see this punch coming until it's almost too late to duck it at all. It lands across your jaw with an impact so blinding that you don't think before you react; you twist his wrist until it snaps and hit back with enough force to kill.

Your fist stops inches from his temple.

David's caught it between his hands. 

"Sir...?" He swallows. "Oh, shit, I'm sorry, sir. I didn't mean to--"

"It's fine," you brush it off goodnaturedly, "it's past time you were on your way. Don't let two old men and their reminisces keep you."

Kaz stoops to snatch up his sunglasses, grabs David by the shoulder, and does not look back even once. "Just what in the hell are you doing up here, Solid? I gave you an order."

"I forgot my canteen cup, sir."

You're not quite sure how he manages a twenty mile run after that, wrapping his wrist along the way, because you're so sore you have to take the elevator back down to your car.


End file.
